


you twist to fit the mold that i am in

by sweetie (Marnie)



Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alpha Wade Wilson, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Avenger Deadpool, Cunnilingus, Face Slapping, Face-Sitting, Intersex Omegas, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Peter Parker, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sassy Peter, Scent Marking, Service Kink, Sex Toys, Sex Work, Switching, Temperature Play, is there not a rut tag...?, there's identity porn but it doesn't last that long lol, weird a/b/o politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:48:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24853354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marnie/pseuds/sweetie
Summary: Wade needs a partner for his rut, and Weasel's got connections in higher places than he realizes.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 34
Kudos: 420
Collections: I'll Be In My Bunk





	1. Weird Hormone Mishaps

**Author's Note:**

> this has been kindly beta and cheer read by the lovely [WaterMe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaterMe/pseuds/WaterMe), who has also been really helpful about touching base with me about kink stuff and writing logistics and is just generally amazing! PLEASE read her stuff if you haven't. 
> 
> this is not complete, but i've written a good chunk and have planned out the rest. quarantine is not being kind to me job and housing wise so i can't promise a regular schedule, but i've been holding on to this for a bit and i wanted to finally get some feedback. i hope you enjoy it!
> 
> there may be some things in this fic that isn't everybody's cup of tea. nothing so bad imo that the more intense archive warnings apply, but enough that i felt a warning was necessary. i'll make sure to list specifics with each chapter. i'll also update the tags as i go.
> 
> it's a little corny but the title is from maroon five's sunday morning haha!

Weasel’s got a system with the people who work for him. 

If someone is just looking for a good time, it’s pretty straightforward. Just clear it up front so the guard on duty knows who to look out for. If someone is looking for a heat or rut companion - well, that’s when the system gets a little more complicated. Weasel will show the client a photo (usually accompanied by a cheesy-as-fuck description that he writes himself). He’ll then reach out to his employee and, if they’re amenable, they’ll hand over an article of their clothing and ask for one in return. Compatible scents, compatible mates. 

Wade’s slumped over the counter at Sister Margaret’s, grumbling his displeasure onto the bar while Dopinder runs a companionable hand up and down his back, when Weasel slinks over and throws a shirt onto Wade’s head. This in itself is not so uncommon—sensory overload sucks, and Weasel has put everything from wet towels to cut up curtains on Wade’s head to help him drown out the world. As much as the bartender plays like everyone and everything annoys him, he knows how to handle Wade. It takes a moment of blissful sensory deprivation, but then Wade’s sluggish brain catches up to him, and he realizes that he’s smelling one of the most pleasant omega scents he’s encountered in a long time. It’s a sweet, unique smell: not overwhelming, but distinctly enticing. He’s never smelled anything like it.

“Got a guy who’s more than ready to put up with you, Freddy K.”

Wade takes in a deep, indulgent breath, and then lets it out in a rush of words. _“Hohmygodwhothefuckisthistheysmellamazing.”_

“Name’s Peter. College student with lots of bills to pay, a real sweetheart. Right up your alley.” Weasel sounds disgruntled to be even saying this. 

“Got a picture?” Wade hedges. 

A square of plastic slides under the shirt, hitting Wade on the chin. It’s too dark to see so he sits up with a groan, hating the pulsing ache that slides through his muscles as he does so. He’d learned to live with the lingering pain of Weapon X’s aftermath years ago, but rut always brings out the worst of it. He’s achy and irritable. Wade is generally characterized by a lack of focus, but it’s especially awful when rut rears its ugly head, because very few people are willing to try their luck with unfocused _and_ violent. 

He painstakingly peels open his eyes, letting them adjust to the light. It’s a glossy polaroid of a young man in an oversized button-down shirt. It’s slipping down to expose one freckled shoulder, and impossibly lovely brown eyes peek out from a fringe of messy, curly hair. He’s laid prettily in a nest of blankets and, funnily enough, Avengers plushies. Written on the bottom in a messy scrawl is a simple message. _Hope to see you soon! :)_

“Guh,” Wade breathes. 

Weasel rolls his eyes and barks, “Don’t make stupid Alpha noises in my bar.” 

“But Mr. Weasel, this bar is a constant cacophony of stupid Alpha noises,” Dopinder points out, bemused. Wade adores him. 

“Yeah, but it’s worse coming from this guy.” Weasel sounds like he’s gearing up for a tirade.

Wade sighs, settling himself in for the inevitable. 

“It’s like. Old Yeller’s corpse coming to haunt Travis and giving him zombie rabies.” 

“Yep, mm-hm.” 

“It’s like when that elephant seal comes into town to have fights with people’s cars and they just stand around and watch because it’s a distressing eventuality.” 

“Okay.” 

“It’s like if that mutant guy from Resident Evil 3 said ‘fuck time!’ instead of S.T.A.R.S.” 

“I don’t understand that reference.” Dopinder mumbles.

“It’s like—”

“Dopinder,” Wade interrupts Weasel, loudly. “My parents didn’t even ask me if I wanted to be born or anything.” 

Dopinder lets out an appropriately sympathetic noise and pats his covered head. “It is okay, Mr. Pool. The experience of existence can often be a handsome prison.” 

Wade sighs, slumping back down onto the bar. “He looks so tiny, Weaz. What if I hurt him?” 

“You won’t,” Weasel says, impatiently. 

“Wait, Weasel,” Wade says, head perking up, “Is this a rare occurrence of you being supportive? Should I make a note on my calendar?” 

“God, no. You think you’re on Sesame Street or something? He’s a mutant, Wade. Strong as fuck, could probably snap your spine. What do you take me for?” 

Wade blinks. “Buddy, I can only get so aroused.” 

Where does Weasel even find these people? 

* * *

Weasel wrinkles his nose and gives an exaggerated shudder of disgust when Wade stalks into Sister Margaret’s, slamming a cactus-patterned button down onto the bar.

He can feel the sharp eyes of Marg’s regulars. Under the sheen of amusement, there’s a cruel underpinning of perception—any intel is useful in a profession with squiggly, sideways morals, and Wade isn’t happy to be giving up this morsel of information. Shooting a glare around them, he whines, “You can’t even smell it, Weaz, fuck.”

“It’s the thought that counts.” Weasel grumbles. “Can’t believe I’m facilitating your weird… hormone mishaps.”

Wade rolls his eyes, laughing despite himself. In the years that they’ve known each other, Wade still can’t figure Weasel out. He smells like a lot of things Wade would rather not smell—shitty beer, weed, sometimes blood. But it’s all infuriatingly neutral. Sometimes Wade wishes they could trade places. 

* * *

Wade’s on assignment at ~~Tony Stark’s Giant Metal Cock~~ Avengers Tower with the goody two-shoes gang when he gets the text. He gets a few glares from around the table at the ping (a brief soundbite of Yukio saying, “check your phone, Wade!”, and hadn’t recording _those_ been fun, Yukio’s adorable), but he ignores them as he leans back in his chair and opens his phone. 

See, Yukio’s delightful warble is assigned to a number that he only gives to the most important people in his life—Weasel, calling with a job or a new, pithy insult; Dopinder, desperately in need of a sympathetic ear; Violet (the lonely, four-times widowed old lady who lives in his building who is unabashedly determined to squeeze his biceps and reminisce on her days as a young omega breaking hearts), letting him know that she made too many daiquiris, and what’s a girl all on her own to do? 

Long story short: this number rings, Wade answers.

Saying “on assignment” is loose, anyways. The Avengers and Avengers-adjacent-SHIELD-slaves are required to meet at the top of the month to discuss strategy and generally “team-build” (ugh). As if all the bullshit corporate trust exercises in the world could make them like Wade, anyway. To be fair, he’s friendly with a few of them. He and Hawkeye sign silly stories and dirty jokes back and forth when they’re supposed to be paying attention, playing a game to see who will crack first under Romanoff’s stony glare. Once he realized that she could sign, breaking her became his new mission. He’s up to two lip twitches and one hastily disguised snort (prompted by an absolutely filthy joke involving a platypus), so all in all, he’s happy with his performance. And her threats of putting a knife in his dick seem almost affectionate, these days. 

The only other one who puts up with his shenanigans is, of course, Spider-Man. He’s probably like sixteen and has this giggly, starry-eyed appreciation of Wade’s less awful career stories. He’s obviously fairly new to the whole super-person thing, and he’s always the first to present ideas that are idealistic and just a little left of crazy. 

Wade and Spidey have made a game of showing up to the Avengers tower in increasingly goofy outfits on top of their suits. Today Spider-Man is rocking Hello-Kitty pajamas. He looks miles cooler than Wade (in JUICY booty shorts and an ENEMY OF THE STATE hoodie), but his outfit had earned him a laugh, pleasant even through the odd voice modulation of Spider-Man’s suit, so he’ll be counting it as a small victory. 

The young man in question perks up when he hears Wade’s phone chirp in his hand, and Wade is sure to wink at him as he pulls it out. The notification is from a number he doesn’t recognize, and when he opens his messages his jaw drops. It’s a picture that’s as sweet as it is indecent. It’s Peter, and he’s wearing nothing but Wade’s button down and a smile. Only the bottom two buttons are done, letting the top of the shirt splay open to expose small, cute breasts. Wade’s fingers twitch, already envisioning his own broad hands spread across the expanse of that creamy chest. In contrast to all that softness, the omega’s arms are corded with wiry muscle, and his torso is similarly well-formed. He’s slim, deceptively delicate in the way that dancers are delicate, and if Wade didn’t know anything about Peter’s mutation he’d worry about the dubious safety of working with Weasel’s rougher clientele. Peter’s lips are quirked into a coy half-smile, cheeks flushed, and one hand is snaking between lovely thighs, destination hidden in the shadow of Wade’s shirt. 

The kid better be making fucking _bank._

 _:) You smell nice,_ reads the accompanying message.

Wade lets out an obscene noise. Captain America pauses from the front of the conference room to give Wade a sad, tired look. Steve Rogers is _so_ funny, and he’s never trying to be. He’s a little old church lady wrapped in a layer of 100%, all-American beefcake. While he’s never been particularly rude to Wade, Wade knows good and well that he’s too much for Cap’s old-timey Alpha sensibilities. 

“Sorry, Captain Sexy,” Wade chirps, not at all sorry. 

His ability to give a shit _mayyyyyy_ be a little impaired by the handful of prescription painkillers he’d eaten before coming in. Unfortunately, the hazy little high that’d been overtaking him is abruptly receding to remind him that his stupid hormones are throwing a party in his pants that would make a drunk white dude at Coachella blush. He’d very much like to do wonderful things to the stranger with the curly hair and pretty pink nipples sliding into his DMs.

Wade texts back, _a;sdjfwoieurdmfvsudg;wieojfsdoighweh;dfjgowieiyrndgdfguoerer8hdffalkgn_ 😳😳😳 

He’s tempted to stare at the picture for longer, but he’d rather not pop a boner when he’s supposed to be on goodie-two-shoes duty, and the scent-blockers in his suit are strong but not that strong. He sighs, bemoaning that nothing in life is ever fair, and stows the phone back into his hoodie. 

A moment later, Spidey reaches into his pajama pockets and glances at his own phone. He lets out one of those freaking _adorable_ laughs, taps briefly at his phone, and then gives Captain Sexy his undivided attention. 

_Check your phone, Wade!_ chirps Yukio.

🥵💦: _You’re lucky key smashes are one of the languages of Generation Z_ 😌

🥵💦: _So, is that a “see you soon?”_

* * *

**DP:** _bb dat’s a “wen do u want our wedding to be”_ _  
_ **DP:** _ur gorjes_

Wade texts back later. He’s got his head on Al’s lap, using her old-lady smell to mask the smell of New York. Three little circles pop up immediately. 

🥵💦: _You’re sweet!_

🥵💦: _Weasel’s told you my prices?_

 **DP:** _yea send me ur cashapp swthrt_

The tag makes him crack a smile—itspronouncedwienerslave—as he fires off four hundred. 

**DP:** _buy urself something nice bb thanks for the pic ;P_

🥵💦: _Wade! I can’t accept this much, we still need to negotiate!_

 **DP:** _consider it a processing fee no take backsies_

They spend a few more minutes playfully bickering back and forth, but Wade’s adept at being persuasive by virtue of being annoying, so Peter eventually caves, gratefully admits that this will make groceries less painful for the next few weeks. That pleases some stupid instinct and he lets out a pleased purr. Al pinches him on the neck, muttering about aggravating-ass Alphas.

“Just you wait,” he coos to her. “That boy texts me one more time and this couch will smell like me for the next _decade.”_

“Lord give me _strength,”_ she snaps, continuing to pet his head just the way he likes.

Wade gives Peter the address to one of his nicer places in the city, guiltily setting a reminder to clean the place up. He knows the kid’s used to a rough crowd, but turns out not everyone finds random bloodstains and piles of spare C4 as big a turn-on as he does. 

He’s paying for a few extra days to ease into his rut. He’s never been able to time that shit—one day he feels like shit, and then the next he’s suddenly going stupid and barely resisting the urge to drill a dick-shaped hole into anything vaguely human shaped in a three-block radius. Money hasn’t been an issue for Wade in a long time, and Peter is charmingly bashful as he shares that this will help him secure his last tuition payment. Wade has to take a minute, not sure how he managed to secure cute _and_ smart in one adorable package.

The other benefit of meeting up a little early is that it gives Peter the chance to back out before he finds himself _literally_ tied to a situation that he’s not comfortable with. Wade winces a little as he types out his last message. 

**DP:** _1 thing tho bb boi weasel show u wat i luk like rite?_

🥵💦: _Yep!_

 **DP:** _i’m sry lol_

🥵💦: _Why should you be sorry? You’re big and strong. I like being held down. :)_

Al has to resort to pressing a pillow on his face to derail an incident.

* * *

They finally meet outside Wade’s stupidly expensive Manhattan condo. His building is situated outside of Central Park, and he has a gorgeous view. He’s not ashamed to be pulling all the stops out for Peter. He’s weirdly nervous about impressing this kind, goofy omega. Ever since those first texts Peter hadn’t stopped sending him messages completely unrelated to their deal—funny stories about his friends and classes and his day. Photos of his lunch with a little _Thank you!_ 😘 that makes Wade’s knees go weak. It’s above and beyond what he’s paying for, and even though he knows it’s just good marketing he can’t help but feel a warm glow in his chest every time his phone pings.

Wade recognizes Peter by his hair. It’s a mess of curls and waves, resting sweetly around his ears. ( _I used to slick it back with gel and holding spray,_ he’d texted, sending a laughing emoji. _I looked like such a little nerd in high school._ ) He’s wearing a simple enough outfit, a faded band t-shirt, skinny jeans, and clunky doc martens. As he gets closer, Wade is delighted to notice his backpack is covered in Pokemon patches. He’s Team Mystic, which _totally_ checks out. 

And then he makes it all better by letting out a breathless, happy little, “Hi,” and standing on tip toe to wrap his arms around Wade’s neck for a hug. Wade holds him easily, hands resting on his waist to bring him closer. He digs his nose into those messy curls and breathes him in, and is endlessly grateful that he's wearing sweatpants and this won’t get awkward fast. 

“Holy shit, look at you,” he cries. Peter giggles into his neck. He’s not being especially subtle about scenting Wade, either, soft little face maneuvering into his hood to press at the crook of his neck. “You’re so fucking sexy, what the shit.” 

“Nice to finally meet you,” Peter says, when they finally part. He’s blushing prettily, and when Wade brushes one stray curl away from his forehead to tuck behind his ear, his face lights up with a smile.

“Well baby, I think I met you in my dreams a few times, so. Welcome back,” Wade tells him, grinning when Peter playfully shoves at his chest. He takes the opportunity to snag Peter’s hand, pulling him towards the door of the building

“Let’s get you inside, sweetheart. Where’s your jacket?” 

Peter shrugs one shoulder. “The cold doesn’t really bother me.” 

Wade grins. “Sure thing, Elsa. Care to come up to mine and let the storm rage on?”

Peter slides an arm into his, easy as anything, as they start walking. He’s a small, deliciously firm presence at Wade’s side, a little timid but not so much that he passes up the chance to get a feel of Wade’s muscled arm, fingertips running curiously over his scars. The Alpha woman waiting behind the front desk gives the two of them an envious look, and the beta businessman that steps out of the elevator trips over his feet as Peter smiles at him.

“Up to you if I let it go, Wade,” Peter murmurs, as the elevator slides shut.

Wade stares up at the ceiling and prays to his reflection for patience. 

* * *

Peter’s a professional. Wade can see his eyes widen when they step into his condo, but Peter’s astonishment passes quickly. Before Wade can blink he’s already making himself at home, stowing his bag in the hall closet and sitting right down on the floor to pull off his boots. He’s wearing teeny _Spider-Man_ ankle socks and Wade melts a little. Finally settled, he turns to Wade and says, “I’m all yours.” 

Wade’s brain freezes up. While it takes a few seconds to reboot, his traitorous mouth squeaks out, “Want to eat lunch and ignore some Netflix?” 

His head has been throbbing with a low headache for hours. He’s only been back in this condo for a few days and it unsettles him how it doesn’t really smell lived-in. The compatible omega, smelling so sweetly of need in his sterile space, is only making him feel more off-balanced.

He’s trying to figure out how to explain all of this without sounding like a crazy person (okay, but, who is he kidding) when Peter grins up at him. “That sounds great.” 

Wade’s shoulders relax a little, and he guides Peter to the kitchen with a hand on the small of his back. He just barely contains an endeared coo as Peter balances his hands on the seat of the Wade-sized barstool and pulls himself up with a cheerful bounce.

“You like pasta, baby boy?” 

“Free food is the best food,” Peter confirms, fingers tapping away at the bar. Wade is mesmerized for a moment by the chipped black polish sparkling on his nails. He shakes himself out of it.

“Words to live by.” 

Pesto pasta is quick and easy. Peter insists on helping him chop ingredients (“I’m the _best_ at basil,” he tells Wade seriously), his tongue poking out as he works. Wade can’t help sneaking glances at him, heart fluttering every time Peter brushes just a little closer than he needs to. 

Food achieved, they head to the bedroom. It’s just that the best TV is there, after Wade realized it’d be useful to moving the plot along. Wade manages to coax and tease Peter into bashfully admitting an addiction to _Flavor of Love._ Wade is never going to pass up on the chance to experience Tiffany Pollard’s manic attempts to seduce Flavor Flav in glorious HD. 

“Do you mind if I get a little more comfortable?” Peter asks, as Wade settles on the bed. 

With a coy look Peter toys around with his belt buckle, working the leather through with leisurely fingers. His lips quirk into a shy smile, and there’s something like delight in his warm brown eyes as Wade watches him slowly slide his jeans down, baring inch after never-ending inch of absolutely gorgeous legs. Wade catches the briefest hint of blue lace under the oversized band shirt. He’s inordinately proud of the grin his loud wolf-whistle earns him. 

Wade props his back up against the headboard. Peter, after asking sweetly, meticulously arranges some of Wade’s many pillows into a cute nest, splaying out atop them. It’s been ages since an Omega felt safe enough with Wade to even think about nesting near him, and the sight of it is sweeter and more distracting than he thought it’d be. They end up watching the show with half an ear; most of their time is devoted to trading stories. 

Peter is just as unguarded in person as he was in his texts. He’s twenty and is double-majoring in Biochemistry and Engineering at Empire University. He grabs his phone to show Wade a cute frog video (“You haven’t seen this? You _have_ to see this.”), and literally cries by the third playback. With minimal prompting, he briefly demonstrates his mutation by sliding off the California King bed and then _lifting it with his bare hands_ , metal frame and all. Wade almost drops his food in awe. 

And he listens as much as he talks, reacting to stories of Wade’s more disastrous jobs with wide-eyed interest and delighted interjections. Wade surprises himself when he finds himself giving the world’s shittiest cliffsnotes version of his mutation’s manifestation. 

“Mine happened when I was fifteen,” Peter explains, absentmindedly pushing his hair off his forehead, “One day I was the dork with glasses and asthma and then I could—then I was, um. Really, really strong. I had to hide it for a while, but sometimes I would use it to work odd jobs and help my aunt pay rent. I started running packages for Weasel and then eventually realized, hey. I’m kinda cute, right?” 

Wade snorts. “If you’re ‘kinda cute,’ I’m Ryan Reynolds.”

“Who’s that?” 

“An asshat.”

Peter’s nose scrunches up alluringly as he giggles. It’s an infectious sound, and the two of them just laugh, taking in each other’s company.

“Hey, Wade?” Peter asks after their laughter has died down. 

“Hey, Peter?” 

“I’d really like to kiss you.” 

Wade gets butterflies in his stomach. He. is. _smitten._ “Oh, em gee, I’d like that, too!” 

Peter shuffles closer on his knees, an adorable look of determination on his face. His hand is warm when it rests on Wade’s thigh for balance, and then Wade is muttering “zowee mama!” as he’s suddenly got a lapful of cute boy. Peter’s soft giggle is intimate as it hangs in the air between them. He rests his hand on Wade’s cheek, and then his calloused fingers trail along Wade’s jaw to cup his chin, tilting his face up.

The kiss is a sweet, chaste thing—just a press of soft, warm lips on Wade’s chapped ones. 

“You can touch me.” Peter murmurs against Wade’s mouth, a smile in his voice. 

“I am touching you,” Wade says, because he can never do anything without being at least a little contrary. 

_“Please_ touch me,” Peter amends breathlessly, and then whatever’s left of Wade’s self-control is erased by the urge to just reach out and _take_.

His fingers tighten on Peter’s thighs, and then Peter is surging closer for a decidedly less innocent kiss. His lips part in an encouraging little sigh as Wade rucks him up further with a hand on the back of each thigh, pressing him in hard. He wants Peter to know what he’s doing, to _feel_ the growing erection straining against his sweats. Wade runs one hand up Peter’s shirt, appreciatively taking stock of the fascinating balance of soft and firm—the curve of his hip, the swell of a muscle, the subtle strength in his back. He licks into Peter’s mouth, groaning when Peter hums and nips playfully at his bottom lip. He chases Peter’s mouth when he pulls away, but then Peter is pressing a wet little kiss at the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, and then slowly down his neck. 

“You taste like pasta,” Peter says. It’s somehow the sexiest thing anyone has ever said. Wade huffs and rucks his hips up. Peter gasps, riding the movement with a little laugh. _“Somebody’s_ happy to see me.” 

“Baby, I gotta tell ya. I’ve been fantasizing about sticking my hand up your shirt and enjoying a frantic teenage makeout for _days.”_

Peter snickers into his neck. “Oh yeah? How’s the real thing measure up?”

Wade whines. “So great, love it so much, now can I _please take this shirt off_?” 

Peter leans back and grabs the hem of his shirt, and though Wade is briefly sad about not being able to do the honors, it’s erased by the sight of the lacy little bralette Peter’s got on. It’s a deep, royal blue, fetching against flushed skin. There’s a little mole situated just below the curve of where one apple-sized breast meets his sternum, which Wade zeroes in on immediately. He’s struck by an urgent need to put his mouth on it, so he leans in and presses a soft kiss onto it. Peter’s soft, warm skin swells underneath his lips as he breathes in a contented sigh. He leans back.

“Um. Hello,” Wade says weakly. 

“Hi,” Peter breathes. 

Wade leans in, nosing gratefully at Peter’s bared neck. He’s blessedly free of any scent blockers, smelling only of himself, richer for his arousal. Peter’s hands curl over his shoulders, and he leans in to bite at Wade’s earlobe. “I’d really like to taste you?” he whispers, suddenly shy. “If, um, if that’s okay.”

Wade thinks he might just die (he’d come back, but still). Then he thinks he might just die if he doesn’t get his pants off, immediately.

His striptease is a lot less sexy than Peter’s, mostly because he’s shucking his clothes as quickly as possible. But Peter is bites his lip appreciatively, pulling Wade into another deep kiss as he slides back onto the bed. “Wanna get on your stomach for me?” Peter asks. 

Peter beams at Wade’s nod and reaches for some pillows. There’s something charming and distinctly _omega_ about the way he hums and fusses over arranging them. There’s some kind of rhythm to the way Peter works—the way he scrunches up his nose at how this or that pillow doesn’t fit tightly enough, the careful look in those doe-eyes as they occasionally dart his way. Wade tries to help and gets a playful but firm smack to the back of his hand for the trouble as Peter mutters indignantly that there are _levels_ to this, Wade. Peter glows as he places a pillow a half inch over, _just so,_ and sits back on his heels in satisfaction. He turns back to Wade and curls a hand around the small of his back, guiding him down. 

“You know,” Peter says, throwing one thigh over Wade’s lower back, “I thought a lot about what I wanted to do to you.” 

“Hmmrrgh,” Wade groans, melting into the pillows as the curve of delicate wrists grind into tense muscles, loosening them. 

He thrusts restlessly, and the wet friction of his cock against the soft fabric of his pillows has him briefly afraid that he’s going to shoot off like the teenager he’d joked about being. Peter works him over, slow and thorough, seemingly unbothered by the warzone that is Wade’s skin. He leans down, presses a kiss to the nape of Wade’s neck. Then another lands on one shoulder blade, then the other. 

“I’m gonna take care of you, okay? We’ll have a good time together.” Peter whispers this promise into the curve of his spine, lower and lower, and then he hums and kisses at the swell of Wade’s ass.

He can feel the callouses on Peter’s hands as they trail up the back of his calves, skittering teasingly over the back of his knees, then up to gently push his thighs apart. It’s a sweet exposure, this, desire burning lowly in Wade’s stomach, banked like a fire. Many of the restless impulses that have been warring in his head are quieted—they’re still present, because Wade’s gums are all but itching at the thought of getting his teeth on Peter’s throat, but it’s less of an overarching need. 

Peter’s hands spread Wade’s cheeks, and then he’s blowing softly over Wade’s hole. Wade jerks, but Peter’s tempers the movement easy as anything, hands tight on Wade’s hips, and _fuck_ if Wade couldn’t hammer nails right now.

“Baby boy, we have _got_ to unpack tha—HAT!” Wade’s sputter tightens into a high-pitched whine as Peter presses his thumbs into either side of him and licks over him, agonizingly slow. 

“Do you have any lube?” 

“Does capitalism ruin lives?” Wade wheezes, smiling as Peter laughs into his skin. It’s a strange and lovely sensation, the huff of breath against one of his most sensitive spaces, the nip of blunt little teeth into his skin.

He reaches for the bedside dresser, rambling aimlessly around until his hand finds the familiar container. He passes it over to Peter, who hums in thanks and then kisses at him, once, twice, delicate, teasing. He’s pushing at Wade’s rim and then he pushes his tongue inside, as deep as he can. Wade wants nothing more than to push back into his face but Peter holds him down, making sure Wade takes what is being given and nothing more. The thought bounces around Wade’s head, leaves him fuzzy, trembly, secure. There’s something so sexy about the furtive nature of it. He loses track of time this way, groaning helplessly into his pillow, face heated from his flush.

Peter pulls away briefly, and it’s only the distinctive _click!_ of the lube bottle that keeps him from voicing a bratty complaint, and then a cool finger is tracing his hole before slipping inside. His fingers are slender, but there’s still a slight stretch, and the burn is pleasant. It’s clear he’s searching for something, and then he finds it and there’s a tug in Wade’s lower belly as a wave of concentrated, almost painful pleasure spikes through him.

“Mm, like that?” Peter whispers. 

Wade opens his mouth to answer, but then Peter’s retracting his finger and pushing two back inside, the pads of his fingertips running firmly over Wade’s prostate. He laps his tongue over where Wade is stretched around him, breaking off into a low moan. The obscene huskiness of it reverberating into Wade’s flesh. Is he touching himself, Wade wonders? Twirling one of those nipples, or dipping his hands into those cute boyshorts to tease his clit while his cock drips into the lace? 

Peter doesn’t stop him from thrusting forward this time, eagerly matches his rhythm when he presses back, murmuring encouragement. His fingertips score over Wade’s prostate, pulling a fucked-out noise from deep in his throat each time. His other hand burrows under Wade’s stomach, and Wade lets out a filthy sound when he realizes those fingers are wet where they wrap around his cock, tugging slow and firm. Peter twists on the upstroke, scoring over the head, spreading the ooze of precum gathering at Wade’s slit.

“Come for me, Wade, I need it,” Peter is saying, teeth scraping deliciously over Wade’s ass cheek. 

“Fuck, baby,” Wade breathes out.

It’s hard to track the build of it. He’s coming in between one breath and the next, fucking into Peter’s grip, making a real mess as his release spurts from him. It’s tacky between Peter’s fingers and the pillow below. Peter milks him through it, pulling away only when Wade whimpers with discomfort at the rising sensitivity. Those questing little fingers dip lower to tease at where his knot has swelled, and all it takes is a little squeeze to have Wade gasing through another, weaker orgasm. Peter pulls his fingers out, slow, dragging over Wade’s prostate, letting out a naughty little giggle as Wade trembles over the sensation.

“Thank you, Wade,” Peter sighs. 

“Anytime, what the fuck? Come here,” Wade says, rolling onto his back. 

Peter gives a little wince as he looks briefly around and then wipes his hands on Wade’s sheets. And then he’s pressing his front all along Wade’s body, pretty eyes searching Wade’s. Wade pulls him in for a kiss, savoring how his own taste mixes with Peter’s. He nips at Peter’s lip and he mewls, actually _mewls_ , and Wade has to pull away and gnash his teeth.

“When I’m not seeing double I want to spend, like, thirty minutes sucking on your tits,” he announces. Bashful, Peter presses his face into Wade’s pec and laughs. “And then I want to do a thorough variety of gross things with you. But right now? I’d love it if you sat on my face.” 

Peter breaks off into a real laugh this time, but then he’s sitting up and pulling off his bralette with a sigh, exposing those cute little breasts. Wade bets they’re sensitive. He reaches up to cup one in his hands, feeling the tight weight of them, the way Peter’s nipple catches on Wade’s scarred palm. Peter moans, his hand coming up to rest on Wade’s wrist. 

Wade wants to make his legs tremble. 

It takes some maneuvering, but teamwork makes the dream work, and Peter shuffles up, up, up, until his thighs are on either side of Wade’s face. 

“You know, no one’s ever done this for me before.” 

“Eaten you out? In Canada, we’d call that a human rights violation. I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.” Wade cries, indignant.

The view’s lovely. He can just barely see the way Peter’s face brightens when he laughs. 

“No, um. This.” 

“Let you ride their face? That’s still a crime.” He reaches up and tugs at Peter’s hips. “C’mon, sweetheart. I’ll only bite if you ask me to.” 

Peter’s shy little noise is cut short when Wade presses a kiss onto the wet lace of his boyshorts, breathing him in. A purr rises in his chest. He could probably sit here like a creep, high off pheromones, but that’s not why they’re here. He tugs the fabric aside, freeing Peter’s cock. The lips of his cunt below are bare and flush with slick, and Wade leans up and drags the flat of his tongue up his slit. 

Peter breathes out a little curse, one hand falling to rest on Wade’s head, the other curling around the headboard for balance. Wade licks along his labia, exploratory, dipping into quivering flesh with a hum. Those exquisite thighs tense around Wade’s head, and it feels like a victory. He flattens his tongue again, pulls a single-minded path up the wet of him to his swollen clit, and Peter keens, pushing his forehead into his arm. His nails scratch pleasantly along Wade’s scalp, trailing an aimless pattern into his skin. Wade settles the tip of his tongue just under his clit and flicks it back-and-forth, and it’s this that draws a high, long moan from Peter’s lips. Wade’s cock twitches with interest. 

“I’m not gonna last long,” Peter warns, breathlessly. 

Wade draws his clit into his mouth and sucks. Peter’s hand slams inelegantly into the headboard and he starts a little chant of _please_ and _don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop_ , thighs quaking as he moves in a slow, rolling rhythm, like he’s afraid of being more selfish. Wade pauses to lift him up. For all his strength, Peter is small, light enough that it’s no real effort to move him. This is a discovery Wade is eager to abuse. He shushes Peter’s protesting whine by giving him two fingers, pressing in firmly and crooking along silky walls. He’s fluttering tellingly around Wade’s fingers. Wade licks at where he’s stretched out, thrusting quick and shallow, then pulls up to resume a swift pattern on his clit. Peter matches Wade’s rhythm, fucking himself on his fingers. A little sob falls from his lips, all tender distress. 

Wade pulls back, just a hair, a wicked tease of breath against flushed skin. “You close, baby?” 

“Yes, please, please—” Peter cuts himself off, biting his lip against a whine. 

And Wade just won’t have that. “Jerk yourself, baby boy.” 

The warbled, “yes, Wade,” does things to him. Something to explore later. Wade waits until Peter’s fisting his cock before putting his mouth back on pretty pink flesh, and all it takes is one determined lick, one light brush of teeth against skin before Peter cries out Wade’s name and pulses tight around his fingers, spilling messily onto his hand, a single-minded devotion to chasing his pleasure in every motion of his body. Wade brings him down with coos and kisses and firm thrusts, until Peter’s gasping and rising up on his knees to escape the threat of overstimulation. 

He’s red from his face to his chest, and as he takes in the mess that Wade’s face must be, it darkens. “Eep! Wait there.” 

Wade watches with amusement as he scrambles off the bed on fawn legs. He wobbles over to the en-suite to retrieve a damp washcloth, and spends the next few minutes cleaning the both of them off as much as possible. He refuses Wade’s offer of help, but thanks him by kissing his nose. After a few more trips in and out of the bathroom, he chucks his boyshorts and crawls into bed, tucking his face into Wade’s neck. 

“That was nice,” he mumbles. 

Peter is so funny. Contradiction after contradiction in one mighty fine package. Wade rests a hand on his ass, because he can do that and it’s nice, and snuggles close, indulging the urge to shelter and protect.

“Ten out of ten geese-a-laying?” 

“What?” A chuckle. “Thought there were six? Anyway, I should be asking you that.” 

“I’m a happy customer, Petey-pie. I’m going to get on your nerves this week, just you watch.” 

Peter pulls back and gives him a surprisingly fond look. “Can’t wait.”


	2. Like Like

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> life is still kicking my ass, but i've mapped out the rest of what i'd like to write for this and my tentative plan is to have this completed before the month is out! thanks for your kind comments on the last chapter, and thanks especially for your patience :)
> 
> thanks again to WaterMe for helping me get this cleaned up and coherent!!!

“Do I need to pick you up to make you shower?” Peter asks, after several failed attempts to unglue Wade from his bed. 

“I’d love that!” Wade gasps. 

He doesn’t bother containing his gleeful shriek when Peter easily picks him up into a princess carry and takes him all the way to the bathroom.

Their shower is desperately unproductive. Peter is curious about Wade’s skin in a way that doesn’t feel like he’s grossed out or fetishizing, and he’s clearly fascinated as he catalogues and compares their mutations. He’s got insightful things to say about muscle and metabolism, and hey, he could have sworn this scar was a little higher up like an hour ago and isn’t that so cool? Wade’s no slouch (Special Forces doesn’t tolerate _complete_ dumbasses), but he feels pleasantly out of his league listening to Peter’s speculations.

He takes the opportunity to trail his hands covetously over Peter’s body, enjoying the swell of a hip, the raised skin of a rare scar (“I heal pretty fast, so it takes a lot for them to stay,” Peter explains. The forced lightness of his tone is the only thing that keeps Wade from prying), the way dragging his palms slowly up Peter’s flanks has him shuddering even underneath the warm spray of water. They fumble their way into something like cleanliness, by virtue of questing hands slickened with soap.

Toweling off is similarly fun. Peter squeaks out a laugh as Wade rubs his hair dry with military efficiency; a curse tumbles from Wade’s lip at an unfairly powerful towel whip.

They return to the bedroom, and it isn’t long before Peter has burrowed himself in Wade’s closet. Wade hears him let out a pleased noise and then he emerges wearing one of Wade’s sweaters and a triumphant grin. It’s an ugly Christmas sweater decorated with a lopsided Deadpool logo and crooked little snowflakes. Al had knitted it for him a few years back, and he’s never been able to figure out if she messed up the logo on purpose or not. Peter’s hair, still damp from the shower, is drying in odd curls and spikes, and the flush on his cheeks is darling. He proudly presents a pile of folded up clothes to Wade with a shy smile, murmuring about how he’d searched for something soft and that he hopes it’s okay, because he’s not sure how it works for Alphas but his skin always gets sensitive near a heat, and he’d really like to cuddle if that’s okay? It’s a cute, rambling conversation, but there’s this comfortable domesticity about it that feels both new and exciting and evocative of something he hasn’t allowed himself to have in a long time. It’s in the way Wade’s sweater falls off a freckled shoulder, maybe, or the way Peter easily tilts his head when Wade leans in to just enjoy the smell of content omega. 

When Wade drops his towel to change, Peter bites his bottom lip appreciatively, eyes glued to him as he dresses. Wade preens, taking just a little longer than necessary to slide on the soft sweats. Once he’s dressed, Wade swoops in close, wraps his hands around Peter’s slim waist, and hoists him up, easy as anything. 

“Oh my gosh you’re really strong,” Peter babbles, hands on Wade’s shoulders for purchase. 

Toned legs wrap around his waist, and as Wade walks them the short distance back to his bed, Peter rests his head against Wade’s temple. There’s something so trusting about the action that it makes Wade’s stomach throng with need. His hormones must be driving him crazy.

“So,” Peter begins, as Wade gently places him down on the bed.

He’s still talking, but Wade is momentarily caught up in the pretty picture he makes, curls splayed out against Wade’s white pillow. There’s a spattering of freckles along the bridge of his nose, and when he quirks his lips up into a bashful grin, Wade is taken by how pink they are. Peter’s thighs part for him easily as Wade settles in, propping himself up on his elbows.

“Is there something on my face?” Peter murmurs. 

“A whole lot of cute,” Wade answers, which earns him a scrunched nose and a little laugh. “Can you repeat that, baby?” 

The little smile that was on Peter’s face falls away, and the hint of fear that bleeds into his eyes as he breathes in is a little worrying. 

Wade braces himself for the worst. “Having second thoughts about this sexy mug?” 

Peter rolls his eyes and swats at Wade’s arm, not even bothering to acknowledge the question with words. Something about that is nice enough that it has Wade smiling goofily, even through the vicarious nervousness building in his belly.

Peter takes a deep breath. “So, we’ve met. Um, before. A few times.” 

Wade’s immediately rifling through his memory and he’s pulling up blanks. He’d definitely remember meeting someone as precious as this. 

“The last time we talked, we had dinner together. You know, at that little Mexican place you like, a few blocks from Sister Maggie’s? We’d spent, like, four hours fighting big walking trees in Central Park, and you were like, ‘Ents suck, I want tacos,’ and you know I could literally eat anything, so yeah. And we had a conversation about, um, secret identities.” 

As Peter’s talking, several treasured memories of the week before resurface in Wade’s mind. Spider-Man, rolling his mask up so he could give Wade that same shy little smile he always made before they eat. The laughter they shared when remembering how confused Cap was by all of the Lord of the Rings jokes the team threw around over their comms. Planning for what kind of pyjamas they wanted to wear for the next team-building meeting. And, most importantly, the sad way Spider-Man admitted he hadn’t led a life that made it easy for him to trust people. 

“Wade?” Peter is saying. He leans up on his elbows, cups Wade’s cheek.

Wade lets out a dry laugh. “So, do you think still Cap’s bitter that he went under the ice before he got the chance to read The Hobbit’s followup?” 

Peter scoffs a laugh and leans close, presses his face into the crook of Wade’s neck. “ _areyoumadatme_?” 

“Not quite how I imagined getting to know you, but I’m not complaining.” 

“But you already do! Know me, that is. At least, I wanted you to. I wanted to let you know who I was. Wade, I _really_ like you. But I wasn’t, like… It wasn’t on purpose that I took this assignment. I mean, it _was,_ I knew it was you, and that was probably really, really creepy. But I mean I’d already been working with Weasel for a little while, I swear, since before you came back to New York, even. Columbia’s not cheap, and I’m not letting Mr. Stark just throw money at me whenever I have an issue, and… Sorry. Anyway. Then SHIELD gave you the okay, and we started working together and I connected the dots, and then Weasel _asked_ and I just... I thought…” 

“...that you’d get into my pants?” 

Peter swats him on the shoulder again, whining Wade’s name in giggly protest. “Did I screw this all up?” he whispers. He still hasn’t moved his hand from Wade’s face, and is rubbing his thumb along the curve of his cheek bone in a tender, absentminded way. 

“No, baby boy. No. We definitely have some talking to do, but hey,” Wade shrugs. He rolls his hips into the cradle of Peter’s supple thighs, lets him feel where he’s been resting half-hard for the past few minutes. “We did kiiiinda make a deal that I’m still pretty into.” 

“And I mean, hey. Talk about bragging rights. How many weirdos here can say ‘Spider-Man fucked my face?’ I’m never letting Weasel call me names again.”

“Wade!” Peter protests, and even through the lack of voice modulation, Wade recognizes that tone of voice—exasperation and fondness and guilty amusement. Now he’s going to recognize that pretty flush underneath the mask, too.

“Do you like me?” he teases, pressing hard against Peter.

“Not right now, I don’t,” grumps Peter, but his hips are rocking up against Wade, arms twining sweetly over his shoulders.

“Ooh, admit it. You _like_ -like me.”

“I am _begging_ you to stop.”

“Oh, I’ll make you beg, alright.”

“Careful, or I’m gonna start thinking you like me back.”

Wade is suffused with guffawing laughter. “Did I not just let you eat my ass? That’s, like, Facebook serious material, baby. That doesn’t happen until there’s a wedding Pinterest board. That’s MySpace ‘taken’ territory. Wait, do you even know what MySpace is? God, time just keeps happening, doesn't it?” 

“Shut up, man. Oh my fucking god,” Peter cries, but he’s cracking up too, shoving at Wade’s chest with none of the strength Wade knows he has.

Wade sighs happily, kissing the top of his sweet little head. “We _do_ need to have an adult conversation soon, baby.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ve got issues, leave me alone.” Peter grumbles, pressing his hot face into Wade’s neck.

Wade leans back just enough to soundlessly wiggle his brows at him, and then he’s swallowing Peter’s laugh hungrily, and hooking his hands under Peter’s thighs until those amazing legs are wrapping around his waist, the sole of one foot trailing distractingly up the back of Wade’s thigh. 

They’re just bumping-and-grinding their ‘Teen’ rating up to ‘Mature’ (and a distractingly thin layer of underwear from ‘Explicit’) when they’re interrupted by ringing—a cheery 8-bit rendition of the Avengers’ theme song, coming from Peter’s backpack. At Wade’s snort, Peter theatrically juts his bottom lip out and says, “Don’t bully me.” 

“Sorry, let me kiss it better,” Wade suggests as the phone tapers into silence and they get settled. He cups the back of Peter’s neck, and then brings him in for a kiss. He swallows down that cute laugh, savors it almost as much as his taste.

The phone rings again. And then again, over the space of three minutes. 

“Someone must really need you.” 

Peter huffs and whines. “It’s my Avengers’ phone. But Mr. Stark and I have an agreement —if I block my schedule out, he’s not supposed to call me in. I’ve blocked out, like, this entire week and then some.” 

“Might be an emergency, baby boy.” 

“This is an emergency. A sex emergency. And I take my job very seriously.” Peter burrows closer, his foot trailing up the back of Wade’s thigh. 

But Wade’s not about to be the reason this sweetheart gets in trouble with New York’s premier Iron Menace, so he kisses his forehead and says, “Tell him to fuck off or something.” 

With a sigh, Peter pulls back. And then he rolls over onto his stomach, rises onto his knees, and crawls to his backpack at the foot of the bed, giving Wade the _best_ view. 

“This better be good,” he sighs into his phone. 

Wade reaches out and pokes at his foot, making him jump. Then he walks his fingers up Peter’s calf, then the back of one deliciously firm thigh. Peter sways back into his touch with a little sigh. 

“I told you, a week off. Remember what I said about my schedule blackouts? It’s important, Mr. Stark. Mmm-hmm. I don’t know. Can’t you, like, call in some of Dr. Reed’s crew?” A stifled gasp as Wade squeezes, and then, “He is _not_ uppity!”

Peter reaches back to swat at Wade’s hand, throwing him a look of mock reproach over his shoulder. Wade slips his hands under the sweater and pulls it up, intent on fully appreciating the ass he will be worshiping for the rest of the week.

“Oh, hush. I’m not coming in. I’m sorry, he’s out this week, too. I promised him I wouldn’t call him unless it’s an emergency.” Wade slips his hand over the curve of one lovely ass cheek, and then dips a hand between his legs along Peter’s folds, which earns him a little sigh of appreciation. “He’s not feeling well, don’t be mean. I take him at his word when he says that. You should be kinder to him.” 

Wade is more than a little smug to find that Peter is wet for him, and not at all apologetic for circling over his clit. Peter masks a whine with the fakest, dryest cough on earth, and Wade huffs out a laugh.

“Don’t call me unless the sky is falling. Wait, I take that back, this is New York.” 

Wade’s silent chuckles shake the bed, and Peter giggles into his phone. He also arches his back prettily, sliding that wet cunt along Wade’s hand. “Don’t call me when my calendar’s blacked out again!”

Then he hangs up. He tosses his phone to the floor, busily pushes his bangs back from his forehead, and presses his chest down onto the bed into the sweetest presentation Wade has seen in years. 

“You’re trying to kill me, sweetheart,” Wade whines.

“Fair play for almost getting me put on some kind of SHIELD list.” Despite the harsh words, Peter’s voice is airy with open desire. 

He hums as Wade gives him a finger, easily parting for him. He’s wet enough that another one slides in easy enough, and he lets out a tiny little moan of appreciation as Wade starts fucking his fingers in slowly.

“You basically told him to kick rocks,” Wade points out.

“Had a nice knot waiting on me…”

And it’s not a question, per se, but Peter’s voice tilts up a bit like maybe it is, and Wade’s dying to get his hands on this sweet thing on his bed wearing his clothes and taking his fingers easy as anything, and even though he paid for the gift horse he’s not really inclined to stare it in the mouth.

He reaches for the waistband of his sweats and pulls them down enough to free his cock. As he shuffles forward on his knees, he slowly pulls his fingers out. Peter accepts them into his mouth, moaning at the taste of himself as his tongue flicks over Wade’s fingertips. He grasps Wade’s wrist, curling Wade’s arm over his shoulder to hold him in place.

Were this any other kind of day he’d tease, but it’s the cusp of his rut, and there’s a sweet omega open and wanting underneath him, and Wade lines himself up and pushes forward in one smooth stroke, his forehead dropping between Peter’s shoulder blades.

“Yeah,” Peter is saying, voice soft and needy under the rushing in Wade’s ears, “please, yes, been thinking about this…”

He trails off into a cry as Wade gives in to the impulse to just _take,_ curling his other hand around Peter’s hip to hold him in place as he fucks deep, chasing that grasping heat with single-minded determination. Peter curls his hands into the sheets below and takes him so good, sighs and moans and whimpers, his scent sweet and so so heady, all for Wade. There’s no finesse to this—Peter gives as good as he gets, pussy tightening each time Wade slides back for another powerful thrust, hips rolling in Wade’s grasp.

Peter worms his hand beneath him, and it only takes him a few strokes before he’s coming with a cry of Wade’s name, fluttering around Wade’s length. And when he’s done, he pushes back into Wade’s rhythm, whimpering about how it’s good, how he wants Wade’s knot so bad, that he can take it _harder_.

It’s like every word goes straight to Wade’s hindbrain. His knot is swelling at the base of his cock, catching on Peter’s hole each time he pulls out, earning him the cutest little whining sounds. Between one movement and the next, Wade pushes in and then his orgasm is punching a satisfied groan out of his chest, Peter milking him with every restless grind of his hips. They’re locked together.

Peter pushes himself up onto all fours, and then he’s craning his neck back so Wade can nestle his nose into the place where it meets his shoulder. He’s drawn to the nearest scent gland like a fucking homing missile, inordinately pleased with Peter’s scent and the contented purr Wade can feel reverberating against his chest.

“Can you give me a good Yelp review?” Peter asks, after he’s caught his breath.

Wade cracks up. “Four and a half stars, made me cum so fucking fast so I couldn’t savor it.“ 

“That’s not my fault, knothead,” Peter laughs.

It takes some maneuvering but they settle comfortably to enjoy the tie while it lasts, Wade pressing his front along Peter’s back, keeping him safe from imaginary onlookers. Wade slips his hand underneath them, gets his fingers to where they’re joined so he can tease Peter’s clit, feel those walls fluttering around his knot.

“That good, baby boy? You’re so wet for me,” he murmurs into Peter’s ear, nibbles at his lobe.

Wade moves as much as he can, wanting him to really feel the _weight_ of his knot. He makes Peter cum two more times like this, kissing along his neck and whispering dirty promises. Peter has to grab his wrist to get him to stop, and as he brings Wade’s hand up to his mouth to kiss at his knuckles, whispering that it’s too much, Wade considers that he might be kind of screwed.


	3. An Update (Not A New Chapter)

hey everyone! i realized the other day that it’s been quite a bit since i updated, and i felt bad for leaving this where it was without an explanation, so here goes.

my dad died last year. for the longest time it has been just me and my parents. they alienated a big chunk of the rest of our family by supporting me through my transition, so they mean the world to me. my dad died pretty much right as i started grad school. i also moved from one side of the country to the other for school, which was emotionally and financially draining on top of everything that was happening.

i’ve been feeling like shit, obviously. i’ve had sporadic bursts of inspiration for writing, but everything i write is sad!!! these days my schedule is: struggle through my work, go to therapy, read a whole bunch, and then sleep, haha. outside of therapy and class, i have no desire to talk to anyone, so i just haven’t been. i know that’s not super healthy, but until i feel more stable, i want to focus on getting back on my feet. i’m compartmentalizing like crazy and trying to stay strong for my mom.

i wanted to thank everyone for reading! i’m going to mark this as complete for now. consider this blanket permission to pick this up or write stuff inspired by this etc, if that’s your thing. to WaterMe, who patiently helped me out with this (she’s all but a co-author, honestly), thanks so much for your time! i’m really sorry for falling off the face of the earth. 

i’m sorry for making such a bummer note! if you’re curious or you’ve read my stuff in other fandoms, i may still write some in the future but my motivation for more lighthearted stuff like this is just nil. i had a bad moment recently and orphaned a lot of my work. despite all the warnings, by the time i remembered that’s irreversible it was too late, lmfao. so i decided to slow down, write if the spirit hit me, and just take it easy. i hope you all have been safe and healthy amidst all this craziness around the world!


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